


The Blind Wanker

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, First Time, Fix-It, Homophobia, Jealous!John, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mentions of dub con in the past, Murder mystery party, The Blind Banker, Top John, bottomlock, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 18:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13370304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: After the Blind Banker case, Sebastian Wilkes invites Sherlock and John to a murder mystery themed dinner. Not to thank Sherlock, but to humiliate him.At home, John serves dessert.





	1. Murderous appetite

**Author's Note:**

> My first explicit work ever... Oh lord.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been hiding something from John. John is not amused.

“Sherlock? What the ...”

John's fingertips float above his laptop keyboard, like a hanging question. He peers from the kitchen table to Sherlock, who's stretched out on the sofa, immersed in a book. _Freakonomics_ , one of Eddie Van Coon's books that they scanned for the Blind Banker case to crack the graffiti code. Page fifteen, word number one: _Imagine_. Meaningless.

Sherlock had insisted on keeping a few books, all about economics and finances. Not keeping, _stealing_ , John had clarified. But dead men don't need books, Sherlock argued, and moreover: perhaps he could learn something from them for a next case.

 _Which_ case though? Johh sighs. They've been bored out of their minds for days. Proof: Sherlock is reading a popular science book.

“Sherlock? What's this?”, John asks. 

“John, as I have told you many times before, please steer clear of Wikipedia”, Sherlock says without even looking up once. He turns a page, and even from this distance John can distinguish every shadow of his long, lean fingers. God, he would be an amazing pianist. Or a very wearisome Gretel to fatten up. The fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel would have been three times longer if the witch had had to start _that_ particular challenge.

“ _Dear Doctor Watson_ ”, John reads aloud, “ _I am writing to you to please reconsider my invitation_.”

Sherlock freezes, like a zebra in the savannah who has finally spotted the skulking lion, in the long second before it comes to a race. John licks his lips.

“ _As you know, your colleague Sherlock Holmes has already accepted, and it would be of great pleasure to me if you and your date could also attend my...”_  

In three fast steps, Sherlock has reached the table and he closes the laptop. Underneath his hand the computer's light shivers, like a soft sleepy breathing pattern, up and down. 

“ _... murder mystery dinner party_ ”, John finishes the sentence. He follows the line of Sherlock's body from his tense hand to his face.

Sherlock's eyes have turned grey and hard. “I already declined for you.” 

“For me _and_ my date, apparently.” John demonstratively re-opens the laptop. The e-mail is signed by Sebastian Wilkes, Director of the Trading Floor at Shad Sanderson. John frows. The somewhat arrogant young investment banker who had provided them with the case one week earlier, doesn't seem like the type to organise a murder mystery party. Let alone that it would be appropriate, so shortly after the murder of a colleague. Although those City Boys aren't particularly famous for their EQ, of course.

Sherlock shrugs. “I didn't think you and Sandra would be up for it.” 

“Sarah”, John automatically corrects, even though he's probably just taking the bait. The rest of the allegation, however, he doesn't correct: dinner and a movie might be too old fashioned to impress women, getting kidnapped by an ancient Chinese crime syndicate is probably better suited for a third date. “And stop reading my emails.”

John checks his trash can. It's been recently emptied. All evidence disappeared down the binary drain of the internet. So that sodding bastard hasn't only been raiding his inbox, answering mails for him, he's also been very keen on keeping that e-vite a secret. Suddenly, John feels like attending. 

“Says here it's tomorrow evening. Me and Sarah are free”, he says. “Let me RSVP.” 

Quickly Sherlock puts his hand on John's fingers. “Please, John. Don't go.” He averts his eyes and sits down. Almost carelessly his dressing gown falls open a little. He looks miserable. John hasn't even heard him say 'please' before. It doesn't sound as good as he'd imagined.

“Why not?” If there's any suspicion in the sound of his voice, it's only because he knows how good of a manipulator Sherlock can be. With a twitch of the corners of his mouth, a posh pout or the completely unfair softness in his eyes.

“It'll be boring. You'll be bored.” The detective looks away, but in his cheek, a muscle is dancing. Sometimes John wants to touch it, feel the quiver, or stop it.

“It's a murder mystery. Sounds right up our alley, doesn't it?” John takes his cellphone and searches for Sarah's number. How do you phrase something like that? _Hey, sorry about that arrow that almost pierced you, wanna go for a night of fake murder investigating?_

John puts the phone back down.

“You'll know no-one. All the other guests are...” Sherlock hesitates. “From uni.”

John looks up, but Sherlock's features are unreadable. Nothing but coldness. He wonders what kind of young man Sherlock was during his university years. It's hard to imagine him eight years younger. Even now he barely looks twelve. According to Sebastian Wilkes, he'd been deducing people even then. _This guy here had a trick he used to do. He could look at you and tell you your whole life story_ , the banker had told him. _Put the wind up everybody. We hated him._  

John clears his throat. Better to accompany Sherlock, actually, now that he thinks about it.

“Says here we have to dress up as our characters.” John clicks on the attachment, and two short descriptions pop up for him and his date. A woman and a man. A couple.

“I'm supposed to play a guy named James Weston. He is _a rugged rugby player from Blackheath_ ”, he reads. “That's peculiar, I myself have played rugby there. Been to a small reunion recently, actually.”

Sherlock stands up and rolls up the sleeves of his tight, purple shirt. As if he's going boxing. John stares at his long, pale underarms, with its occasional bruises and, higher up, hidden in the fold, old needle traces. It's an unwritten agreement that John never mentions them, unless new ones appear. Then he'd grab his arm, pinch it, make it better.

When Sherlock speaks, it's low and threatening, as if a storm is passing through his voice.

“Don't. Go.” 

The detective disappears into his room. In the distance, a door slams, hard.

 

 

 


	2. The amuse-bouche ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody is going to die. Of jealousy, at least.

Sarah Sawyer looks stunning when John picks her up to leave for the party. Well, picking up: he has taken the tube to her flat, to save some money for the cab later. How else do you accompany a lady around London?

Behind John there's a sulking detective. All the way here he hasn't said a word. Even now his mouth is one long line, a torn off barcode.

Ponytail, subtle red lipstick, a white blouse that's slightly open but hides all its secrets, the hint of a blush on her cheeks: Sarah has fully immersed into the character she has to play in the murder mystery game tonight. She briefly kisses John, who's wearing a simple rugby shirt underneath his usual black cotton jacket, and stretches her hand to Sherlock. She's getting used to these threeway dates.

“Nice to meet you, I'm Millie Hopper, the sexy tomboy”, Sarah says with a mischievous smile. John is pleasantly surprised that she's so dedicated to the concept. “You don't seem dressed up at all?”

John shoots Sherlock a warning look. Before coming he's given him a long preach, that he had something to make up for after the Chinese circus, and if he thought he was being too friendly, probably it wasn't enough yet. _Smile as if you were a mime, Sherlock, even then it looks understated on you._

Sherlock growls. “Sebastian told me to come as myself. He still needed a detective character for his childish game, apparently.” 

He shakes Sarah's extended hand. More business-like than friendly. “Sorry again about last time.”

John pushes up his brows.

“Try not to solve tonight's case before the first course is served, Shirly”, Sarah jokes, but sees the look in his eyes and immediately corrects herself. “Sherlock”, she says quickly. John puts his hand on her lower back.

\---  
  
After quite an uncomfortable taxi ride – the three of them in the back, Sherlock insisted on sitting in the middle but proceeded with utter silence – they arrive at Sebastian Wilkes's building. It's a tall building in the middle of the City of London, where all the finance whizz kids live – or rather, sleep, work and snort – and Wilkes apparently lives all the way up in the penthouse.

“The great Sherlock Holmes!”, Sebastian exclaims overly happy as he opens the door. “And his blogger”, he adds, eyeing Sarah from head to toe. He kisses her hand.

Even though he tries to fight it, John's mouth falls open a little. On his army pension, he can pretty much rent a bedroom the size of a toilet stall, but this? Priceless. Past the luxuriously set table, the huge leather sofa and the wonderful wooden floors, the penthouse is pretty much all windows. No walls, but glass panes confine the space, from which you can oversee the whole of London. Rooftops under a misty blanket. Lively lights.

In the middle of the room there's a small group of people in their late twenties, early thirties, carrying crystal champagne glasses. So those are Sherlock's old friend's from university. John studies them. They're all expensively dressed, not fit for a murder game at all, and suddenly John feels quite self conscious in his dirty rugby shirt. He stares at the glass that Sebastian has pushed between his fingers. It's got a golden rim. He holds it a bit lower, to make as few smudges as possible.

“Come on, I'll introduce you lot”, Sebastian says. “ _Love_ your outfit, by the way.”

But there is just a little bit too much intonation on the 'love'. Next to him, Sarah smiles, and John squeezes her hand. 

The group of four opens as if Mozes has split the sea. Curiously they scan John, then Sarah. Sherlock they ignore importunately. Sebastian points to a woman whose dark blue dress is cut so low that John thinks he can distinguish the point where her back ends and the curvature of her behind starts. He tries not to stare.

“This is my girlfriend, Penelope”, says Sebastian. Of course someone like that is named Penelope. John steps closer to Sarah and puts a hand on her side. She feels nice, soft.

Sherlock takes a tentative sip of his champagne.

“You're the blogger”, Penelope smiles. She has perfectly white teeth, but one is slightly crooked, John notices. He decides to stop staring at her mouth immediately, and nods. 

Sebastian points to the duo in the middle of the group, two blonde people who look so much alike that they could be brother and sister, if they weren't so intimately intertwined with each other.

“These are Sandy and Simon. We were all in the same dorm together, all of us”, Sebastian explains. “They're already married.” He makes retching noises.

“ _Love_ your blog”, Sandy says sweetly. Her earrings are so big they could be basketball rings for rats. When she sees Sherlock, her face twitches. “Sherlock."

“Errr, thanks”, John says, shaking her hand. Was he supposed to do handshakes for all of them? Well. That ship has sailed, now.

But the last one in the row already distracts him: a stylish man who's been staring intently at Sherlock from the minute they walked in. He's the tiniest bit taller than Sherlock, clean shaven, wearing a tight ocean blue suit, and his dark blonde hair is greased to perfectly approach nonchalance.

“Victor Trevor”, Sherlock says in a tone of voice that's new to John. It's got a sharp edge. “I didn't know you were going to be here.”

“Well. Here I am”, Victor says, and they hold each other's gaze without looking away. John clears his throat and lightly taps his fingers to his glass.

“Do you... like my blog... too?”, he asks.

Victor doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock. “I've read it with quite some interest.”

Sherlock seems to pale. Out of nowhere a butler appears, in one hand a tray with appetizers, in the other a champagne bottle.

“Oh, please don't tell me the butler did it”, Sherlock rolls his eyes. Victor chuckles.

The man, a balding gentleman, is so professional not to react and refills the glasses of Sherlock's former uni friends. They were already empty, even though they can't have been here long, because one of them put a wet umbrella near the door and it has only just started raining. John smiles. He has only lived with Sherlock shortly and he's already picking up some deduction skills himself.

“Please, have an amuse-bouche, everyone”, Sebastian says. “It's salmon with avocado, fresh goat cheese, some sour cream, herbs and at least one secret ingredient.” He smiles broadly.

The butler holds the platter underneath people's noses. There are tiny, white spoons on it, and everyone takes one, until it's Sherlock's turn and there are none left. He looks disappointed as a child, the butler looks mortified.

“Excuse me, sir”, he says, “Let me get you another one immediately.”

He disappears to the kitchen. Sebastian taps his girlfriend's arm twice, and Penelope opens her fancy pink purse and takes out a stack of envelopes. Sebastian grabs them and inspects them one by one before he hands them out. On John's envelope, in gold-colored ink is written in curly letters: James Weston.

“Before inviting you for tonight's Murder Mystery, I've sent all of you the names of your characters and a short discription. However, in these envelopes I've included a few more details that you're meant to keep to yourself, and that you can use for your character. Including whether you are the killer or not.” He smirks. “Please only open the envelopes after the murder has happened, though.” 

John exchanges a glance with Sarah.

“Oh, I didn't know I could be the murderer”, she says, all too pleasantly surprised.

“Yes”, Sebastian says. “Trust no-one.” 

They all sip their champagne, except Sherlock, who has removed his glass and folded his hands behind his back. He studies everyone intently, as if he could deduce from someone's face or sleeve or shoe who the murderer is, already. While they don't even know it themselves yet. John swallows his salmon and licks the spoon, chasing that salty rush like an addict. It's delicious.

“So”, he says to break the ice. He puts his arm awkwardly around Sarah again, even though he's still holding the sticky spoon as well. “What kind of student was Sherlock?”

He smiles. Sam and Sandy exchange meaningful looks.

“Oh, you know, he was a complete wanker even then”, Victor says. Is the bloke wearing eyeliner, John suddenly wonders, or are his lashes just naturally so dark? Victor touches Sherlock's sleeve playfully. He's stock-still.

“Joking, mate”, he says in a flat, serious tone.

The waiter returns with exactly one spoonful of salmon. Sherlock takes it mechanically.

“Oh, tell them the story”, Sebastian tells Sam. Sandy flashes him a look. “About the kitchen.”

“Well, oh, okay”, Sam says, combing through his blonde curls. John notices Sherlock's adam's apple bopping strangely. “This one time, Sandy and I went downstairs to eat in the communal kitchen. It was after our first time sex, and Sherlock kind of deduced it.”

“It was _so_ funny”, Sebastian says, grabbing Penelope's side quite forcefully. John removes his hand from Sarah's side.

“Typically Sherlock”, John says.

“Yes, well. I do wish”, Sam says dryly, “That you'd waited to deduce it until my actual girlfriend had left the kitchen.” 

Sherlock bites the salmon.

“I got over it”, Penelope says, while John stares at the content of his champagne glass. The bubbles rise to the top, where they dramatically die. Each and every one. “I'm with this lovely guy now”, she smiles, while squeezing Sebastian's hand. 

Suddenly Sherlock retches. He spits something into his hand.

“Sherlock...”, John admonishes him, but then he quickly shuts up as he sees what's in Sherlock's palm, what was hidden in the salmon.

It's a small, silver bullet.

They stare at it. _Oh_ , John hears Sarah say quietly.

Sebastian grins broadly. He looks like the Cheshire cat. “You haven't deduced it yet? You're the victim, here, man.” He slaps Sherlock's shoulder, as if they are old friends. Are they old friends? John carefully studies his features.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “But that's... against the rules.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the butler did do it.


	3. For starters, I'm not gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Victor touches Sherlock under the table, and John notices. It's awkward.

John washes his hands just a little too long. The bathroom is about as big as his bedroom, or maybe even Sherlock's. Only, instead of a bed, there's a huge white bath, between the toilet and the window. The bath is flanked by a heatable towel rack on the left wall, and a television on the right. But worse: next to the bath is one large window, without any blinders or curtains, and the whole time John was pissing he felt uncomfortable. The Gherkin was just standing there, accusingly, it seemed. Even though probably no one could actually peek inside. Unless they had binoculars. John kept thinking about the imaginary binoculars.

John turns off the faucet and removes Sebastian's envelope from his back pocket. It contains his character description, as well as some clues which he could drop during conversations, if the right questions are asked.

_James Weston._

_You are a Blackheath rugby player. You know the victim, Herlock Sholmes, because he used to stare at you from the side of the fields during games, and you two chatted once or twice. He was rude to all your rugby loving girlfriends, and eventually you tried avoiding him._

_One time you had a fight with him, and shoved him up against the wall quite rougly. He seemed to like that. It freaked you out._

_You once talked to a police officer about possibly filing a restraining order, but you didn't do it because you didn't think it would help._

_You think Herlock Sholmes is a creep and you're not sorry the guy's dead at all. In fact, it's rather a relief._

_At the time of the murder, you claim you were at your girlfriend's Millie Hopper's place, and you ask her to lie for you. However, you were out. Having sex with your brother's girlfriend._

_You are not the killer._

_Side note: You are the twin brother of Henry Weston (role of V. Trevor)._

 

 _Herlock Sholmes?_ A little odd, that. Maybe it's just one of those groups of old college buddies who, once they meet up again, fall back into their old lame jokes and habits. John shrugs and slips the envelope back into his back pocket. 

When he returns, everyone is already seated on the table. _Shit_. He can't sit next to Sarah anymore, only opposite her, next to Sherlock. The detective is flanked on the other side by Victor, or better: Henry Weston, James Weston's twin brother. Victor sits upright and smiles broadly at Sam en Sandy opposite them, who seem to be cut out of a catalogue and have just about as much personality as a collage. On opposite ends of the table, the host and hostess sit, Seb and Penelope.

Sarah looks somewhat lost upon John's return. _Sorry_ , he mouths at her while sitting down. Sherlock shifts a bit more to the right, closer to Victor. 

“I take it everyone has had a chance to read their cue cards?”, Sebastian asks. He takes the folded cloth napkin off his plate and puts it in his lap. “The butler will bring our starters soon. Let's take this opportunity to talk to each other in character.”

John can almost _feel_ Sherlock roll his eyes.

“What's there for me to do? I'm supposed to be dead”, he sulks.

“It wouldn't be fair to the rest of us if you were able to actually investigate, Sherlock”, Victor says. Did he just... Did he just briefly put his hand on Sherlock's knee? John squares his shoulders. Somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm is going off.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker toward Victor. “Can't I be some sort of ghost solving my own murder?”

”A talking ghost?” John grins. “That’s _absurd_. I know it’s hard to grasp, but us idiots can solve murders too.”

John wipes his clammy hands on his jeans. Kind of surprising, how badly Sherlock wants to be involved in the game, really, quite out of character for him. John folds the swan out of his napkin, and smiles at Sarah.

“I'll start”, Sebastian takes charge of the conversation. “My name is Mike Sholmes, and I'm the victim's older brother.”

A small noise comes from the back of Sherlock's throat, and the butler leans over him and puts the first dish on the table. It's lobster soup, with prawns scattered across the surface. 

“I hope this'll be safe to eat”, Sherlock comments dryly. “Don't want another bullet in my head.”

“Glad you dodged the bullet”, Victor says, and he winks at him with one of those half-smiles like he's Katie fucking Holmes in Dawson's Creek or something. John's fist clenches. He hides it under the table.

Sam and Sandy continue. “We're the victim's parents, our names are just Mom and Dad.”

“I'll assume you're Daddy”, Sherlock says, without missing a beat, staring at Sam. Victor about chokes on a shrimp.

“I'm James Weston, if anyone's interested”, John says. “Cheers”, he tells the butler, who's refilling his wine glass generously. He takes a sip of water, just to show he can, too. He's an adult. He's responsible.

“We're a couple, James and I”, Sarah adds, smiling. “I'm Millie Hopper, and Herlock Sholmes used to stalk James when he was on the rugby field. That's how we're supposed to know him.”

She fiddles with her napkin. She might not be as self assured as she's leading on. Might she be the killer? John squints. Can he even trust _her_? 

“And I'm Mrs. Thames, Herlock's young and hot landlady”, Penelope says. Sherlock flashes her a quick smile, probably just to rile Sebastian up.

And suddenly, Victor's hand is full-on on Sherlock's knee. Right there, under the table, in plain sight where John can clearly see it. The goddamn gall. The impertinence. John's trying not to look at it, he really is. So is Sherlock, it seems, because he abruptly puts his water glass back down, trembling a little.

“So”, that Victor guy has the audacity to add. “John. How long have you been Sherlock's colleague?”

“ _Friend_ ”, John corrects him. He smiles wryly and quickly pinches Sherlock's other leg as if to say: _just give me a sign if you want me to save you from unwanted advances_. Just, you know, to help him. So he knows he's safe and all.

But are they unwanted? Sherlock's eyes quickly glance at John. Unreadable.

God – _aroused_?

“We've met a few months ago”, John says. He doesn't even know why he's lying. It's been a few weeks tops. But, to be fair, his life has been so turned upside down – improved – that it feels like years. 

“We're supposed to be talking in character, _James_ ”, Sebastian insists. “Mom and Dad, I'm asking you, as your only son that's left, how are you feeling?” 

“Well, we're certainly glad it's not you that died, Mike”, Sam reads from his cue card. “You were always our favorite.” 

“I mean I guess we'll miss him, poor sod”, Sandy adds. “But at least now you'll be the only one getting our inheritance, I guess.” She laughs.

John's mouth falls open. But he's distracted, because in the corner of his eyes he sees Victor's hand creep just a little higher.

Sherlock thinks it a fit time to loudly slurp his soup.

“So Victor”, John says. He fully and knowingly puts his hand on Sherlock's other leg now, not too high up, but just so Sherlock knows he's got his back, you know? Just so he knows he's safe, that's all. “How did you two know each other in college?”

Victor smiles, pretending he doesn't see John's hand at all. “He helped me walk my dog.”

John's fingers freeze on Sherlock's – now lightly trembling – leg.

“Oh, you had a dog?”, Sarah unhelpfully asks. John remembers to smile kindly at the woman. He hopes she doesn’t notice what's exactly going on beneath the table cloth. Not that there's anything bad going on or something. Just regular old hetero bro soothing.

Sherlock breathes out rather erratically.

“An Irish setter”, Sherlock quickly says, his voice oddly restrained. “It was an Irish setter. Can I speak to you in private, please?” 

“Yes, of course”, John replies.

“I wasn't. Talking. To you”, Sherlock hisses. He loudly shoves his chair backwards, and pulls a smiling Victor toward the bedroom.

 


	4. I hope you like my potato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not exactly foodies. It goes sour.

The exact second the first pork and potato dish touches the table, John shoots upwards, straight as an arrow.

“I better go get Sherlock and Victor to tell them the main course is served. We mustn't let this get cold”, he tells Sarah, and the others, and first and foremost himself.

Thirteen minutes have passed since they disappeared to the bedroom, but they feel more like seven years. Years full of smalltalk about the fake, boring murder case, about finances, about some prank they pulled in their master's after which nothing else of interest ever happened in their lives. Hence this dinner.

John dashes towards the bedroom, then briefly hesitates, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He hears soft voices. 

It's indecent to eavesdrop. 

Then again, they could be saying something important. John should make sure he's not intruding on a most crucial part of their conversation, so that it's not cut short. Thus, he puts his ear to the door. The cold echoes through his entire body.

“... get outta here, Sherlock”, he hears Victor say. Does Sherlock need his help? And are they standing very close?

“Victor...”, he hears Sherlock's softest voice he's ever heard. Like velvet. Like a knife cutting through velvet. Is he _begging_?

John quickly opens the door, because obviously Sherlock might be in danger. The two men look up immediately, like caught deer. They are standing at the wall – not in the bed, at least, and Victor is pressing Sherlock against it. And as if that's a totally normal position to be caught in with Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't even move backwards.

“D... Dinner. It's served”, John says. His eyes flash from Sherlock's face to Victor's face.

“We'll be right there”, Victor answers. John, however, casually keeps the door open, and waits. Victor turns back around to Sherlock, and talks more softly. “You keep your mouth shut, do you hear me."

John leans forward. “Are you... _threatening_ Sherlock Holmes?”, John says, and he takes a few steps closer, past the soft, luxury double bed. His eyes are squinting, his body is tight like an elastic band, and he's waiting for the slightest sign. The lightest nod will make him snap.

But Sherlock waves at him dismissively. “We're old friends, John, it's fine.” The man looks at Victor, intensely. “We go way back.”

Victor holds his gaze a few seconds, then walks out. Sherlock straightens his tight shirt, which John swears he solely uses to torture buttons. For a second there's a flash of skin between his trousers and the shirt. John's eyes flick to it unconsciously.

“Did he touch you?” John asks. Trying to be protective, of course.

“That's none of your business”, Sherlock replies indignantly. And suddenly, John knows what's going on. Victor is likely a former lover, a first relationship that ended rather badly, wounds not fully healed. What was it that Sherlock had said? Women – _not my area_. Men – _I know it's fine?_ John had been wondering these past few weeks. Gay it is, then. It's not exactly a surprise, or anything. Just surprising that he'd go for someone as obnoxious as Victor Trevor, that's all.

Then, of course, Victor is smart, he was at university, studying alongside Sherlock. He must like people who are intelligent.

And Victor is quite dashing, too, John can admit. He has _eyes_. He's not _blind_. 

“Look, I get it”, John says. “We've all been young once.” 

“ _I_ haven't”, Sherlock says, sounding slightly offended, like an outraged suburban mom finding out one of the neighbours' kids has been smoking weed occasionally.

“If he was... If you two were... Look, Sherlock. I didn't like the way he was touching you earlier. But if it's...” He swallows. “If it's what you want.”

Sherlock walks up to John, so very close. “I told you not to come”, he hisses, and pushes John out the room. “Don't ruin this.” 

\---

  
It takes a few more minutes until Sherlock joins them at the table. Maybe he was adjusting his pants, trying to hide his boner, John's mind unhelpfully supplies.

Victor smiles as if nothing happened. “Do you want my potato?”, he asks Sherlock. “I'm on a carb free diet at the moment.”

Sherlock takes the potato. John stares at Sarah's potato. It's half eaten already. It doesn't look too appetizing anymore.

“Mrs. Thames”, Sebastian addresses his girlfriend, still trying to make the murder mystery dinner happen, “As Herlock's hot landlady, what can you tell us about him?” 

“Well, not much, I suppose.” She's all smiles. She, too, hasn't eaten her potato, John notices. “He was a reclusive man, to be honest I walked in on him a few times...” She side-eyes Sherlock. “Wanking sadly.”

Sherlock swallows. His eyes glance briefly at John's, and if he didn't know better, he would have sworn there was a hint of sadness in them.

“He was, you know...”, Penelope/Mrs. Thames whispers to the others, bowing her head toward them a little. “An invert.” 

“Herlock Sholmes, I mean”, she adds, folding her hands in front of her.

“A what?”, Sandy asks.

“A fag, dear. Mommy”, Sam says. “A nancy boy. A poof.”

“Yes, if only we'd had ourselves a proper girl instead of a queer”, Sandy sighs cruelly. 

“A pansy”, Sebastian adds. “A poofter.”

Sherlock scrapes his throat. “Tell me, Sebastian. You're an investment bank director, aren't you? Was it five percent or ten percent psychopaths who work in the finance industry?” 

“Ten percent”, John says. They'd both been exchanging interesting tidbits of statistics and facts while reading Eddie Van Coon's books, after all.

“At least you feel right at home among our company then, Sherlock”, Sebastian replies. He puts down his cutlery and slowly wipes his mouth.

  
John's fist is nervously opening and closing. Across the table, Sarah shares a knowing look with him.

“I think we better leave”, she says. “All three of us.” 

“Oh no, please stay”, Penelope says, flashing her crooked tooth. “I think I've just solved the case of Herlock Sholmes.” 

A pink flush reaches Sherlock's cheekbones now, as she speaks, pronouncing the last words like there’s a hot potato in her mouth. “It wasn't a murder at all. Herlock Sholmes _killed himself_ because he was a sad, lonely _faggot_.”

 


	5. Tea is served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with his dad's homophobia. And dishes out some hard truths.

John gets up so fast that his chair falls backwards on the wooden, expensive floor. He hits his fist on the table, and stares at it.

“So let me get this straight”, he hisses.

“Straight not being the correct word”, Sherlock mumbles next to him.

“Shut up”, John points his finger at the man. “This is no laughing matter.”

But Sherlock is not laughing. He's looking deflated, completely embarrassed. Meanwhile, Sarah gets up and leaves, presumably to get all their coats. To get out the line of fire.

John squares his shoulders.

“You”, he points at Sebastian, “Summoned this man, an old college acquaintance, when your company was in trouble. When someone was being threatened. You mocked him. You dismissed him. And yet he still solved the case for you.”

“Well, someone did die first. And I paid him generously, too”, Sebastian quips. He stands up as well, a Cheshire grin.

“Then”, John raises his voice. Sherlock stares at his hands. Sandy laughs nervously. Everyone else's eyes are fixed on him. “Then you invite him here, supposedly to say thanks. You invite me, and a date, to humiliate him.”

John glances at Sherlock. He feels oddly like his dad now, all built-up rage, trembling, and yet he has never felt further from his homophobic trashcan of a father than in this very moment.

“You out him”, John adds, “To his closest friends, against his wishes.” Then, hesitantly, he adds. “If he is gay, which, might I add, we're well into the new millennium and it's actually completely okay to be gay – well, if he is, then that is none of your business.”

Victor shifts slightly in his seat. John shoots him a poisonous look, but decides not to pursue that path.

Sarah returns with the coats, and hands Sherlock his Belstaff. It wakes him up from his stupor, and with trembling hands he takes it, gets up, and tentatively puts a hand on John's shoulder.

“Come on John. It's okay, we can go”, he says, but his voice is slightly unsteady, and it just about breaks John.

“It's not okay, Sherlock”, John almost yells, and he meets the man's gaze. Sherlock's eyes are wide, he looks stunned. John thinks back about his father. How close they are in this moment, how unhappy his father would be if he knew it.

“Just leave, John”, Sebastian says, but he can't stop himself from muttering – “And take your boyfriend with you.”

That's all it takes for John to grab his empty wineglass and fling it, angrily, at Sebastian's head, who ducks away. The glass shatters against the wall.

Behind them, the butler, who was just coming in, screams out in fright. He drops a large cake on the floor.

\---

They ride the cab in complete silence, all three of them. Sarah sits between them and takes it all in stride, bless her. When they reach her address, she kisses Sherlock on the cheek, and to John's surprise, he lets her. He closes his eyes and allows her to kiss him, there, on his skin pale as ever. When she gets out the car, she dons a quick wave at John and closes the door.

Sherlock immediately moves as far away from John as possible.

John loathes it. He looks uncertainly at the rearview mirror, in which he can see the taxi driver's eyes reflected – and some sympathy in them. Great. Pity from the sodding cabbie. Can't trust them. Either they're murderers, or you wanna murder 'm.

“221B Baker Street, please”, he croaks. He's been such a fool. That was such a John Watson move in there. An old move, perhaps. Resorting to violence. Embarrassing everyone that's present. His fist is still shaking. The street lamps' lights slide off Sherlock's cheekbones as they drive through the city. Sherlock, who's leaning against the car window, eyes closed.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John asks. “Look, I'm...”

Sherlock suddenly reaches inside the front of his pants. John is startled. What's happening, all of the sudden, in this cab?

Sherlock removes some folded papers and hands them to John.

“Well, I don't know if I want your ballsack papers, Sherlock”, John jokes, but Sherlock doesn't laugh. He flips through the pages. They're numbers, followed by more numbers.

John frowns. “I don't understand.”

“You see, but do not...”

“Observe, yeah. I get it.”

“Look closely, John.” Sherlock says, not even opening his eyes, or moving, just straining against the door so hard that John is worried it might fly open and scatter the detective across the London streets.

In a way, it's how he feels: run over, ruined.

He examines the papers more closely. “They seem to be.... Numbers.”

“Very observant.”

They're lists and lists of numbers, they mean nothing to John, who doesn't exactly have the mind of a decent bookkeeper. _Oh_.

“During our initial conversation with Sebastian, I noticed how uncomfortable he got when I mentioned the traveling to him”, Sherlock says. “So I asked around. Talked to his secretary. Turns out they were all business travels, and he never ever takes a proper holiday.”

“So?”, John asks.

Sherlock rises slightly, opening his eyes. “So? John. He doesn't take a holiday because he wouldn't let anyone near his books. Because he was busy doing fraud. I learned it on the Freakonomics website. Do keep up.”

John smiles. “So this is what? The final proof?”

“Exactly”, Sherlock says. “Classic Ponzi.”

“Oh. That's why you went to a murder dinner party.”

“Located the incriminating evidence in his bedroom. Do I need to spell everything out for you, John?”

John looks sadly down at his ridiculous rugby shirt. “Apparently, yes.”

Sherlock's face falls. “I didn't want you there, John. I asked you not to come.”

“I know.” He fumbles with the papers. “I'm sorry. About... all that.”

“Stop talking”, Sherlock says, glancing at his friend. “Leave it, okay.”

John makes eye contact with the taxi driver, who tries to wink reassuringly. John glares at him. They spend the rest of the taxi ride in complete silence.


	6. All that is leftover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wankfully they're back at 221B.
> 
> We all know what's for dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both John and Sherlock work through their Victor issues.

Sherlock immediately flees to his room. Typical, John thinks. Probably there'll be a week of silence next. ' _Sometimes I don't talk for days on end'_. It was no lie. Except for the part where somehow it would always be John's fault. He sighs. It's half past eleven in the evening. Time to take a shower, perhaps. He throws his rugby shirt away, angrily.

Maybe he forgets to close the door.

But Sherlock can hear he's in the bathroom, so that's fine.

It’s all fine.

He turns the shower on, harder than ever. The water splashes against his tense shoulders, the bathroom heats up because of the warm water, and the glass walls of the shower are completely covered in steam. It feels amazing, it makes him forget. For a brief moment in time, there is only his body, in a closed-off glass coffin where he can see nothing of the outside world, as if he's all alone.

Almost automatically, his hands travel down to his balls. He needs to wash them, after all. And soap them thoroughly. 

He slides his fingers across them carefully, adjusting them. The touch sends a shiver through his legs, an old ache. Perhaps a good wank will serve as decent stress-relief. He has earned it, after all.

John takes a little bit of extra soap and slides his hand slowly upwards, covering the whole length of his penis until he lets it flop down again, to then immediately grab at its length again. He caresses his foreskin, trying to think of Sarah. She did look rather nice, today. Though, in retrospect, perhaps her clothing style kind of reminded him of Sherlock's, wearing a nice shirt like he always does. Like the posh boy he is. John gently squeezes his penis, gliding his slippery hands up and down. It's not gay, because technically he's thinking of Sarah.

He quickens his pace, squeezing his eyes shut. What was the deal with that Victor lad though? He always figured Sherlock was quite asexual. Married to his work, didn't he phrase it that way? But there was definitely something there. John grunts. He uses his other hand to cup his balls, then to slide a little lower, across the perineum. He whimpers with pleasure.

“Sherlock”, he exhales. Yes, he's definitely thinking about Sherlock now, how he was probably so eager being introduced to sex by Victor, kissing him, rubbing their groins together through the fabric of their trousers. Oh, god, is this even normal? John is beyond caring. He imagines Victor putting his hand down the front of Sherlock’s pants, his innocent face slightly shocked, lips open, cheeks flushed. “Sherlock...”, he repeats. He imagines Victor turning Sherlock over, exposing him, pushing his fingers inside him. He wanks faster and faster now, slowly building, not quite letting himself but - close, so close.

He uses one arm to reach deeper down. He brushes his thumb over his anus, lightly breaches himself - thinking of Sherlock, lying on a dorm bed, being overwhelmed with want, being ravaged - and John comes immediately, dirty, hard, squirting cum all over the flushed glass of the shower cabin.

Suddenly, he hears a foreign sound – a strangled sigh, and the whole world seems to stop, even if the water keeps streaming. He hesitates, turns the faucet off, and then opens the shower door, to peek his head around the corner. He nearly gets scared to death. Right there, on the closed toilet lid, Sherlock sits, his long legs crossed.

“Thought I heard my name”, Sherlock says, coldly.

John swallows hard.

“I thought you needed my help.” His voice sounds strange, contained. Like he's holding something in. A laugh, perhaps? Or something... else. 

“Nope. Perfectly fine”, John says, wondering how much Sherlock could exactly see through the glass – or hear. Well. It wouldn't even take a brilliant detective to deduce what exactly was going on in there. John grabs a towel nearby and wraps it around his waist, as if it would hide the evidence. No, that evidence is sliding all the way down the glass right now.

Might as well go with it now.

He takes a few brave steps toward Sherlock, who's still sitting crossed-leggedly on the toilet – unable to move, perhaps.

John bends forward, gets almost uncomfortably close to the detective. He rests his left hand on Sherlock's knee, which jerks a bit, the only giveaway of any possible nervousness.

“Tell me, Sherlock.” He lips his lips. “What exactly went on between you and Victor.” 

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows in surprise, and looks from John's hand – touching him – to his face, to the small towel wrapped around his waist, back to his face.

“What -” he stammers. John looks him up and down. There's clearly a blush creeping up to his ears, and yes, something pokes from Sherlock's pajama pants. He's erect, and god, by the looks of it, it must be _hurting_.

Sherlock catches John staring at it. 

He's trembling, and yet his voice sounds steady. “Victor and I were friends in college. But when he was drunk... When we were... drunk...” He hesitates on the word drunk. Perhaps something else, then. John winces, but then nods understandingly. No need to get into those specifics now. 

“He would come onto me. We would have sex. But afterwards, he’d always pretend like nothing happened”, Sherlock says. His voice is small, his face unusually open. He puts his hand on John's, and traces a path along his fingers. Absentmindedly, suggestively.

John stares. Those long, beautiful fingers. How can anyone act like being touched by this beautiful, extraordinary man _didn't happen_?

John leans even closer to Sherlock's face. _The bravery of the soldier._

“What did you like to do, you two dirty little sex maniacs?”, he asks.

A mischievous smile crosses Sherlock's face, but only briefly, blink and you'd miss it. He leans a little further, almost touching John's lips.

“First, he'd grab me by the hair and drag me to bed”, he breathes against John's lips, and almost touches his tongue to it, yet seems to change his mind.

John watches as his own right hand automatically, as if on cue, lifts to those lovely curls – he's always wanted to touch them, mess them up. Softly, he places his fingers in Sherlock's hair. 

“Like this?”, he asks. 

“No, a lot harder”, Sherlock says, his soft rumbling voice sending a shiver through John's groin. God, he's about to be ready for action again. He wants. Oh, he wants.

John grabs a fistful of Sherlock's curls, and the detective reaches for his hand, pulling his fingers even tighter and slightly nodding. That's all John needs to drag him upwards. Sherlock yelps.

“He'd throw me on the bed like an _animal_ , on my belly”, Sherlock hastily says, while being literally dragged into the bedroom. John holds Sherlock completely still in front of him for a moment, to enjoy the sight of Sherlock's back arched backwards from the pull on his curls. John pushes his growing erection against Sherlock's hip. The detective makes an strangled noise. For a minute, John traces Sherlock's long neck with his free hand, then pushes the man onto his bed.

Sherlock lies in complete submission on top of the covers, still wearing his pajama pants and a loose tshirt. His arms are outstretched above his head, and he doesn't move.

“Victor would undress me roughly and clumsily”, Sherlock says. “Because he was drunk.”

John reaches over, and puts his hands on the elastic band of Sherlock's pajama pants. He hesitates. There's no going back, if they do this now.

“Is this... Okay?”, he asks.

 “Yes”, Sherlock breathes. “Hurry. Please. Do it.”

John lifts Sherlock's pants carefully over his straining erection – god, the very idea of it makes his penis twitch in anticipation – but then rips the rest of it off with force. He's surprised to find Sherlock completely naked underneath, not wearing any underwear. Then he focuses on quickly removing his tshirt instead.

He takes two steps back and looks at that gorgeous sight: Sherlock Holmes, world-famous consulting detective, completely exposed, on his belly, legs slightly parted. Barely moving – almost unnoticeably trembling.

Sherlock glances back, at John's crotch, eyes flashing with a mixture of pure, dripping horniness and a hint of fear.

“Look ahead”, John orders, as he takes off the towel and throws it aside.

Sherlock quickly complies, but John notices how he rubs his erect penis against the bed in anticipation. 

“Victor would make me spread my legs wide”, Sherlock says, his voice rough with want. John climbs on top of the bed, sits between Sherlock’s legs and spreads them farther to either side. The sight before him briefly takes his breath away.

“What else would he do”, John asks, tracing a finger along Sherlock's legs, upwards.

“Lube”, Sherlock answers, and points to the little bedside table. John reaches inside and finds, to his surprise, a half empty bottle. So he _does_ masturbate, he concludes. How many times have they wanked at the same time in this house, unknowingly? John realises he knows so little of his friend's sexual needs. Yet. 

He pours a bit of lube in the palm of his hand and heats it by rubbing his hands together. Then he adds some more and rubs it softly between Sherlock's ass cheeks, not quite breaching, but merely suggesting. Sherlock grunts and pushes harder into the bedsheets, trying to get some friction for his penis.

“Please”, he begs.

John puts the tip of one finger inside of Sherlock, who's now entirely still, and focused on only the feeling of his finger, it seems. 

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” 

“Yes”, he answers. But something seems stuck in his throat.

“We can stop at any time, you know”, John says. “I don't mind.” He's ignoring his almost painful erection, and tries to sound like a normal, reasonable person. 

“It's just different”, Sherlock says.

“Different?”

“When I'm... sober.” Sherlock buries his head into his long fingers. Damn that Victor, John thinks. If he ever gets his hands on him...

John pulls his fingertip out of Sherlock's hole. 

“No, please, continue”, Sherlock begs.  

John hesitates. 

“He'd slowly trace the edges of my sphincter”, Sherlock narrates again, and John does as Sherlock orders, rubbing the man's anus softly, gently. “And then, when I was least expecting it, he'd enter me.” 

Upon the words 'enter me', John nearly loses it. He pushes his finger halfway inside Sherlock, who gasps. 

John waits a few seconds, then moves gently up and down again. He is a doctor, after all. He knows to be careful. He's also done this with two willing girlfriends before, but never with a man, not even in the army. There would be the occasional sad shower wank in each other vicinity, then. Nothing more. 

Sherlock is writhing around John's finger, pushing back a little himself. After a few minutes of pumping in and out of Sherlock, he adds another finger. “Yes”, Sherlock groans. “Victor would twist his fingers inside of me, roughly, telling me how beautiful I was.” 

“You _are_ beautiful, Sherlock”, John says, and in that moment he's not Victor at all, but John Watson, wondering if they'd better stop, if this is too unhealthy. “I thought so from the moment I met you, when I saw you at Saint Bart's”, he says, to make sure Sherlock knows it's him, not Victor, who likes him, who might even –

Sherlock whimpers in pleasure. He's like a subdued animal, a docile tiger, waiting to be pet.

“Then”, Sherlock says, his voice low and laced with pure sex. “he'd remove all his fingers at once, and position himself against me, rubbing his tip up and down my anus for a while. Just to make me want it more. To make me guess when he would enter me, in one go.”

John nearly comes right then and there. He removes his fingers and wipes them on the bedsheets, then moves his body upward. John wants to encompass this whole man, make him feel safe and protected, yet ravage him at the same time. He puts the tip of his cock against his hole, and rubs it up and down, until he enters the stretched anus a little bit, and then he retracts, making Sherlock moan and beg and rut against the bed. He then repeats the same motion, entering shortly, then retracting again, and it's almost too bloody much for him to handle.

“Please”, Sherlock begs into the bedsheets, grabbing a handful of them. “Please. Take me.”

And in one motion, John moves his penis halfway inside Sherlock, and stays there, sighing, grabbing at Sherlocks shoulders, allowing for Sherlock to adjust to the sensation of something entering his body. It must have been years, for the man. But he can’t wait any longer now. In one swift motion he pushes further, and he's fully inside him. 

“Sherlock, it feels amazing, you feel amazing”, John says. The man merely whimpers.

“Victor would call me a fucking faggot”, Sherlock says, with a slight trace of bitterness in his voice, but also lust. “While fucking me hard against the headboard.”

John swallows. He can’t bring himself to call Sherlock that - but he can fuck him into pieces. John almost goes all the way out of him again, then thrusts hard, pushing Sherlock's body upwards. He grabs at his shoulders and repeats the motion, starts really thrusting now. He feels his balls slap against Sherlock as he almost loses himself completely. 

“Yes, please, like that”, Sherlock grunts, and he grabs his cock. He starts masturbating himself underneath John, and the thought alone, of Sherlock pleasuring himself, almost tips him over the edge. But he manages to restrain himself and fucks Sherlock determinedly, thrusting in and out in a steady rhythm, and it's so much, and it's everything and more than he ever imagined. When he feels Sherlock shudder underneath him, coming all over the bed with a muffled cry, he lets himself go. Sherlock has relaxed onto the matress as he lets John pound harder and harder into him, until he spills himself inside him with a cry.

John lets himself fall on top of Sherlock's back and together they lie exhausted. Their breaths slowly merge, and John extracts himself, yet stays close, and hugs Sherlock, spoons him. Sherlock sighs, and seems to let himself relax completely in his arms.

—-

John must have fallen asleep briefly, exhausted, because when he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is gone. Sleepily, he goes into the bathroom to pee, then steps into the kitchen. He hasn't even put on any clothes yet, walking around completely naked. There, in the middle of the night, he finds Sherlock at the table, wearing his blue dressing gown, peering into a microscope.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John yawns.

Sherlock‘s curls are wet, so he must have showered. God, how long was John out? He squints at the detective, who doesn't look up from his work. 

“I'm waiting for you to leave the bed, John”, Sherlock says. “Thought it would be better if I gave you some space to do that.”

“What?” John frowns. What's the man blabbering about?

“When you... sober up”, Sherlock says, still not looking at him.

“I am sober”, he says. “Sherlock...”, he says, carefully stepping a little closer and putting a hand on Sherlock's biceps. “I was not drunk when that happened, okay? I only had a little bit of champagne and two glasses of wine. I fully and knowingly did... Whatever that was.” 

Sherlock looks up, his cold mask slipping. And suddenly John sees the situation for what it is: in front of him, an insecure man, who never knew sober love, thinking this perhaps really _was_ just a repeat of all the dreadful business with Victor.

John cups Sherlock's jaw, and rubs his thumb across his cheekbone. As if automatically, Sherlock rests his hand on John's forearm, looking so unsure.

“I don't know what that was, Sherlock, but if it was something that you needed to get out of your system, that's okay. We can stop now, and it will change nothing between us. We will still be friends.” Sherlock winces underneath his soft touch.

“But”, John says, “if you want more – if you want it all, or just some of it, in whatever dose you want, with whatever softness or hardness or a mixture of everything, whatever you may need. I am here. I am willing to give it to you, whenever.”

John leans forward, bringing his face closer. 

“Because, Sherlock Holmes, you lovely, posh, amazing madman. I am not Victor Trevor. I am John Watson, and I am madly and irrevocably in love with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should this be tagged dubcon? I’m really not sure. Please share your thoughts in the comments.  
> EDIT: a lot of people have shared their thoughts on this question (thank you!). Clearly this work is not dub con but i’ve decided to tag ‘mentions of dub con in the past’ because of the Victor stuff, so people don’t get accidentally triggered. <3
> 
> Also: the end. Hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Find me on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/) if you like.


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